While I am less inclined to be catlike than I was a dozen years ago, I can still remember it. There were times I ruled with my silence, and John and the kids would tip toe around me. While I only experienced the dynamic from my own vantage point, this
video of dogs being afraid to walk past cats gives me a glimpse of what it was like for my family.
I convinced myself I was holding my tongue, but really I was holding siege. My silence was as much of an invisible barrier as it is for the poor boxers, Great Danes and German Shepherds too timid to go downstairs past the Feline Queen a third their size.
There was a time I am not proud of when I maintained the silent treatment for most of a day. The child who was the object of my talking embargo was going nuts. But I stayed aloof. Finally he cornered me.
"Why won't you talk to me?"
"I think it's better to not say anything at all than to say something mean," I snapped.
"I would much rather you say mean things than not say anything," he lamented.
My senses clicked in. What was I trying to prove? That I could outrude him?
I suppose the good thing about gaffes is that the bigger they are the longer you remember not to repeat them.
